When The Sun Rose Again
by AlElizabeth
Summary: Teen!Chester. An unprovoked attack shakes a young Sam Winchester to his core, but when Dean and John find the person responsible, they take justice into their own hands. WARNING: Non-con of a minor.
1. Chapter 1

Sam sighed when he glanced out the window and saw it was pouring rain outside. Class ended in five minutes and he had to walk back to the motel room on his own. His father and brother were both working a case and neither of them could pick him up.

The thirteen-year old didn't have far to go but that wasn't the point. He'd be drenched by the time he got to the motel since he didn't have an umbrella.

Sam grimaced to himself as his teacher told the class all about the book report they had to write on Robert Louis Stevenson's _Treasure Island_ over the weekend.

The homework wasn't what was bothering Sam. No, he loved school and knew he would do well on the report- if he didn't have to leave town before Monday- what he was thinking about was the last time he'd had to walk around in the rain without the proper attire.

He had just been a kid, nine or ten, and John had taken both him and Dean out into the middle of nowhere with no supplies, to try and teach them how to survive on their own. They had only been out in the elements for one night, but in the middle of a torrential downpour. Dean had given Sam his coat, wearing nothing but his t-shirt and still the younger boy had gotten sick, spiking a high fever, vomiting, hallucinating and the very next morning, when John showed up to collect the boys, he'd ended up having to drive them to the hospital instead of back to the motel.

Sam didn't remember much of the three days he spent in the hospital, but it had apparently scared John so badly that he didn't try anything like that again. If he did, he stayed with his sons just in case one of them got into trouble.

"Sam?"

Looking up at the sound of his name, Sam saw that the rest of the class was standing up, grabbing their things and heading for the door as though the building was on fire.

Blushing slightly, the boy picked up his books and hurried out behind his classmates.

Pushing through the crowd to get to his locker, Sam kept his head down and packed his bag, listening to the kids around him make plans for the weekend.

One of the boys in his class, Andrew, was having a birthday party and had invited everyone. Everyone but Sam it seemed. Not that Sam minded. He barely knew the boy and he was sure his Dad wouldn't allow him to go anyway.

Swinging his backpack over his shoulder, Sam pulled up the hood of his jacket and made his way through the thinning crowd to the set of double doors that led to freedom.

Kids were screaming, holding books or umbrellas over their heads as they ran to their parents waiting in warm, dry cars or buses. Automatically, Sam lifted his head and scanned the parking lot for the familiar form of his father's 1967 Chevy Impala.

It wasn't there. Tugging his hood down and hitching his backpack up, Sam managed to not get splashed as he crossed the parking lot and headed down the sidewalk in the direction of the motel.

 _W_

Sam had barely walked a block but was soaked to the bone. His jacket was soggy, clinging to his t-shirt underneath, his jeans dripping chilly water into his shoes.

Why couldn't his brother just take the car and come around and pick him up? What was the big deal? It would have only taken ten, maybe fifteen minutes and then Dean could have gone back to helping their Dad.

"Hey, kid!"

Sam paused and glanced at the car from the corner of his eye. It was blue, nondescript, and clearly well taken care of, no rust. The driver, a man, had the window rolled down and had his elbow out.

"Do you need a ride somewhere?"

Sam started walking a bit faster. He didn't mean to be rude but he just wanted to get home and get into some dry clothes.

"I can give you a ride if you like."

Sam shook his head, drops of rain flying from his hood.

"C'mon," the man cajoled, "I have a kid around your age and I wouldn't want her walking home in the pouring rain."

Sam continued to keep his gaze straight ahead. The blue car was keeping pace with him as the driver spoke.

"Please," the man wheedled, "I wouldn't be doing the right thing to leave you outside like this."

The motel wasn't far, a couple of blocks at the most. Sam could walk it, easy. But the fact was, he didn't really want to.

Stopping, he turned to look at the man. He was middle-aged, maybe a few years younger than his Dad, with mouse-brown hair that was balding at the top of his skull, making a kind of Friar's ring. He had glasses, a moustache, and was wearing a green sweater. Sam thought he looked a bit like Ned Flanders from _The Simpsons._

"I'll take you home," the man told Sam.

The boy nodded and walked forward. The man smiled and opened the passenger's side door for him. Sam climbed into the seat, dropping his soggy backpack at his feet and closed the door.

They remained idling for a moment as Sam pulled on his seatbelt. The car was nice and warm and smelt strongly of pine trees from the air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror.

"Where are you headed?" the man asked and began driving again.

"The Drowsy Dog Motel," Sam replied, "Do you know where that is?"

"I do," the man replied.

"Do you want music?" he asked and Sam shook his head.

"What's your name?"

"Jim Hawkins," Sam answered automatically, the name of the protagonist in _Treasure Island_ the first name to pop into his head.

"Nice to meet you, Jim," the man held out the hand closest to Sam to shake, "I'm Randy."

Sam shook his hand, "Thanks for the ride, sir."

Randy smiled, "Think nothing of it. It's the least I could do."

Sam leaned back as the man drove.

"Hey, you missed the turn," Sam pointed out as they blew straight by the street they were meant to go down.

"I know a shortcut," Randy reminded him.

"Okay," Sam replied, slightly uneasy. He slipped his hand into his pocket and grabbed his pocketknife he always kept with him.

Sam watched silently, his heart beginning to beat faster, as they left the residential area and were presently surrounded by strip malls that looked more and more decrepit the longer they drove.

"It's the Drowsy Dog Motel," Sam spoke suddenly, "On Kipling Avenue."

"I know," Randy replied calmly, "This is a shortcut."

"You can let me out here," Sam told him, "I'll walk the rest of the way."

"I can't do that," the man told him, "It's still raining. You'd get soaked."

"It's okay," Sam assured Randy, "I don't mind. Honest."

With his free hand, Sam reached for the handle on the door, wondering how much it would hurt if he were to leap from the car now. He didn't get a chance to find out, because while he was distracted by his indecision, the side of Randy's hand slammed into his throat like some sort of Karate chop.

Startled by the blow, coughing and choking, Sam released his grip on the door handle and is pocketknife, bringing both hands to his neck.

It took him a moment to realize that Randy had already stopped the car in the deserted parking lot of an abandoned strip mall and was unbuckling his seat belt.

Sam reached out when Randy climbed over the middle console and over to his side of the car, facing him.

"What-" The thirteen-year old gasped and shoved at the man's chest before one hand clapped over his mouth.

"Shhhh," Randy whispered, "It's okay, it's okay."

Sam, terrified, tried to pry the man's hand away from his mouth but he could barely breathe.

With his free hand, Randy unzipped his khaki pants and bent his knees so that they were pressed against Sam's legs, pinning them to the seat.

No, no, no, Sam thought desperately; get off, get off, get off!

"Shhh," Randy murmured again, and ran a hand through Sam's hair, pushing his hood back.

Sam felt nausea bubble up in his stomach and feared he would throw up. Randy's free hand was back at his pants again, fiddling with his underwear to pull them down.

My knife! Sam thought, feeling relief and shoved his hands in his pockets.

Randy, noticing that Sam was no longer struggling to pull his hand away from his mouth, frowned and grabbed the boy's arm at the elbow, pulling it from his pocket, making him drop the knife into the space between the seat and the middle console and jammed Sam's arm forcibly behind his back, pinning it there with his own weight.

"Don't do this," Randy told him, "Don't do this to me, okay?"

Sam lashed out with his free hand, the one closest to the car's door and scratched at the man's face, digging his nails into his cheek since he didn't have the space to punch.

Randy reared back and snatched Sam's failing hand and once again shoved it behind his back. The man glared at him, beads of blood dripping down his face.

Sam closed his eyes, his chest heaving in fear- he was well and truly trapped now, at this man's mercy- when Randy leaned forward and whispered in his ear, the smell of onions and garlic making Sam's stomach turn again.

"I can make this good for both of us," Randy told him, "Just relax. You'll like it. I promise."

No, please, Sam begged silently; don't do this.

With one hand, Randy tugged Sam's jeans and boxers down to his knees that were still pinned to the seat. Then, the weight pressing down on his legs was lifted and the hand covering his mouth moved away.

"HELP!" Sam screamed as loudly as he could, his throat searing with pain from the force of the cry.

"Shut up!" Randy hissed and shoved a dirty handkerchief he'd had in his pocket into the boy's mouth so he could use both hands.

Sam, continued to try and scream, the words muffled by the cloth, as Randy grabbed his thighs and lifted him. Releasing one hand from Sam's leg, the man used the other to guide himself.

Sam, hyperventilating with panic, cried out again but this time in pain, tears spilling down his cheeks at the violation.

Randy, once he was inside, placed both hands on the back of the seat, on either side of Sam's head. The stench of sweat mixed with the smell of garlic and onions in the car, almost unbearable, making Sam dry heave into the handkerchief in his mouth.

Sam didn't know how long it lasted. It was possibly only minutes but it felt like hours. Pain coursing through him, every cell in his body protesting the abuse he could do nothing to prevent.

Then, Randy was pulling out, leaning back. He sighed and smiled at Sam. Reaching out, he ran a hand through the boy's hair and down his face.

"You'll have to get out here," he told Sam, as though he cared, "I'm sorry but I can't take you to the motel. You understand."

He pulled the handkerchief from Sam's mouth, brought it to his own nose and sniffed it before shoving it back into the pocket of his khakis. Then, he unlocked the car doors.

Sam didn't move. Couldn't move.

"Here," Randy said, "Let me do that."

He pressed the red button to release Sam's seat belt and the moment it retracted, the boy shoved the door open and fell out of the car, his feet tangled in his backpack straps.

Randy paused only to reach out and pull the door shut before speeding off, spraying Sam with muddy water.

On his hands and knees, boxers and jeans around his ankles, the thirteen-year old threw up, shaking and crying and then threw up again.

 _W_

Sam didn't know how long he stayed like that, crouched in the parking lot among the cigarette butts and discarded candy wrappers but eventually he must have pulled himself together, tugged his boxers and jeans back up, slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked back to the motel room. The Impala wasn't in the parking space when he got back, which was perfectly fine with him. The last thing he wanted to do was answer any questions.

Sam unlocked the door, stepped inside, and undressed as he went, a trail of clothes following him into the bathroom. He turned on the tap in the bathtub, turning it to its highest setting and stood in the shower, head down, crying, watching blood and muddy water swirl down the drain.

Although the hot water could wash away the physical signs of what had happened in that blue car, it could rinse away the gnawing ache or the feelings that clung to Sam, even when the spray turned cold and he was forced to turn get out of the shower.

Ignoring looking in the mirror, Sam stepped into the main room, found his duffel bag and pulled on a clean pair of boxer shorts, jogging pants and an oversized Metallica t-shirt that had once belonged to Dean. Without turning on any lights, Sam climbed into bed and drew the covers all the way over himself, curling into the fetal position beneath them.

 _W_

"C'mon Sam," Dean's voice called through the barrier of sleep and the boy woke reluctantly.

"It's time to go," Dean told him, "Dad's waiting for us in the car."

Sam opened his eyes.

"It's nine in the morning," his brother offered.

Sam hadn't even heard his father and brother come home the night before.

"Hey," Dean's face was suddenly inches from his own and the boy drew back in surprise, "You feeling okay? You're kind of pale."

Before Sam could answer, Dean was pressing his hand to his forehead.

"You don't feel warm," the seventeen-year old muttered.

"You didn't get into Dad's Jim Beam again, did you?" he asked with a smirk.

For a few minutes it all seemed that the events of the previous day had been some awful nightmare but then the mention of Jim Beam reminded Sam of telling Randy his name was Jim Hawkins and it all came crashing down on him.

"Sam?" Dean asked, concerned, "Sammy?"

"I'm… I'm fine," he croaked, feeling his eyes burn, wanting to start crying again.

"Tell Dad I'll be there in a minute."

"You sure?" Dean asked and straightened up.

Sam nodded.

Dean turned, grabbed his brother's duffel and headed out the door. Sam didn't care that he wasn't given the chance to change out of his sleep clothes. He just wanted to go back to sleep and forget about everything again.

Slowly, his body aching with fresh pain that hadn't been present the day before, Sam pulled his shoes on and stepped outside. It was a warm, sunny day, not a cloud in the sky. It was as if the day before hadn't happened at all.

Sam climbed into the backseat of the Impala and lay down right away, pressing his cheek against the comforting cool leather of the Chevy's seats and closed his eyes.

 **Author's Note:**

 **Fanfic title taken from an Alice In Chains song of the same name.**

 **This is a birthday present for my friend and beta reader, Mandancie!**

 **Please leave a review and I will have the next chapter up as soon as I can!**


	2. Chapter 2

Sam dozed as they drove, not really sleeping- he could hear his dad and brother talking in the front seats of the car- but falling in and out of a semi-conscious state. He allowed the motion of the Impala's wheels over the asphalt and the drone of the music lull him into a false sense of security.

 _W_

Sam opened his eyes when, hours after they had started driving, John stopped the car and turned the ignition off.

"Restroom break," John announced as he opened the door, "Five minutes."

Sitting up, Sam saw that they were parked in front of a Dunk N' Donuts.

"C'mon Sam," Dean griped from outside the car, leaning in through the open window, "Dad said five minutes."

"You go on ahead," Sam muttered, "I'll be right there."

Dean rolled his eyes and walked into the store.

Sam remained sitting where he was for another minute. He didn't really want to get up but he did have to use the washroom and he knew his Dad wouldn't like it if he were forced to stop again when he'd given them this chance to go.

A blue car pulled up beside the Impala and Sam's heart skipped a beat, thinking it was Randy's car, but an elderly woman exited the vehicle instead.

Sighing, Sam climbed gingerly from the car and made his way into the store. He saw Dean in a line up for food, already having finished using the facilities.

Sam ignored his brother and headed to the Men's Room. It was warm and damp inside, smelling strongly of piss and urinal cakes. He walked right past the open urinals and went into a stall. Facing the toilet, he lifted the seat and pulled down his boxers and jogging pants, gasping in shock at the blue and purple bruises on his thighs where Randy's fingers had dug into their tender flesh.

The boy swayed dangerously to one side before reaching out, grabbed the toilet seat and steadied himself. He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and opened them again. The bruises were still there, seeming to scream out the damage that had been done to the boy.

Without using the toilet, Sam pulled up his boxers and pants and exited the restroom. A quick scan of the store told him that his brother and father were already waiting for him.

Quickly, Sam left the store and climbed into the backseat.

"You're three minutes over," John told him, glancing at his watch, "That means three minutes off your next bathroom break."

Sam barely heard his father. He lay down across the backseat, drawing his knees up to his chest as he did so.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean turned to face him, "I got you a donut."

A white paper bag dropped onto the seat in front of his face.

"Since you didn't get breakfast," Dean finished.

I slept through breakfast? Sam wondered, not sure if Dean meant that he and their Dad had gone out to eat before they left the motel room or if they had picked something up while they drove and, unable to wake Sam, decided to let him be.

"Thanks," Sam muttered but didn't touch the bag and instead closed his eyes again.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean's voice asked from the front seat.

"Fine," Sam muttered even though he was anything but.

"All right," Dean replied and Sam heard the volume of the music on the stereo increase as his brother fiddled with the dial.

Metallica clashed from the speakers and Sam allowed himself to focus on nothing but the music.

 _W_

The second time they stopped so John could fill up the Impala with gas, Dean jumped out of the front passenger's seat and climbed into the back.

"Budge over," he muttered to his brother as he slid onto the warm leather seat.

Dean didn't say anything, didn't ask him any questions (the dreaded 'are you all right?) and instead settled back and watched their Dad through the window.

Sam remained sitting up for a moment, torn between not wanting anyone near him and craving comfort. After a few minutes, when John had gotten behind the wheel again and started off, Sam leaned against Dean and closed his eyes. Dean put an arm around his younger brother's shoulders and told their Dad to turn up the stereo so he could sing along to the Iron Maiden song playing on the radio.

 _SPN_

John didn't know what had gotten into his youngest son. First, Sam had slept in so long Dean had to wake him up just as they were about to leave, then, he had lollygagged when they had stopped to use the restroom. Sam, who could be shy around strangers but chatty around family, had barely spoken to either him or Dean while they drove, instead laying in the backseat.

He's just having a bad day, John thought; we all do occasionally.

He couldn't help but think of how, every year, as early November drew close, he tended to ignore calls for help on his phone and instead drink himself into a stupor in a futile attempt to drown out the memories of his wife's death.

But this wasn't the same. Sam was just being a teenager. He was already thirteen and next year would be starting high school.

John just hoped that this new lazy attitude wouldn't end up as a permanent thing; if it started to look that way, he'd put a stop to it.

 _W_

Tired of driving for the time being and hungry, the Winchester patriarch pulled into the parking lot of a small roadside diner.

"Out, Sam," John growled as his son lagged exiting the Impala.

Stepping onto the wooden porch, the hunter held the screen door open for his sons to enter the restaurant before him and then followed them into the old diner; the scent of grease, cigarette smoke, and beer thick in the air.

Dean took the lead and made his way to the back of the diner, away from the majority of the crowd and sat down in a booth scarred with burn marks and rips repaired with duct tape. John sat beside Dean, giving Sam the opposite side of the booth to himself.

A grey-haired waitress with huge bags beneath her eyes appeared at their table, menus in one and pot of coffee in the other. John and Dean pushed their mugs towards her and she filled them up without a word. She handed out the menus and wandered towards another table.

John shoved the ceramic ashtray sitting on the table to the far end and opened his menu.

"I know what I want," Dean announced, having found a bacon double cheeseburger on the menu, and took a sip of his coffee.

Peering over the top of his menu, John saw that Sam was staring out the window beside him, not even looking at the menu.

"Pick something to eat," John told his youngest son.

"I'm not really hungry," the thirteen-year old muttered.

John leaned forward, "You'll eat or I'll give you a knuckle sandwich."

Although John never would lay a hand on his sons, the threat worked and Sam opened his menu, finally deciding on a Club sandwich and French fries when the waitress came back.

John had two more cups of coffee along with his country fried steak, watching as Sam picked at his fries and tore his sandwich apart to eat the meat and cheese inside.

Shaking his head in exasperation, John decided not to worry about Sam's attitude if and when it became a problem. To keep on about it would only end up creating an argument and John really wasn't in the mood to fight with his son.

Once he and Dean were finished their meals and Sam had ceased picking at his, John paid for their lunch and headed back to the car.

 **Thanks to everyone who reviewed the first chapter.**

 **Please take a moment to leave a review on this chapter and I'll try to post again soon.**


	3. Chapter 3

_Four Months Later_

Sam Winchester sat across from his brother in the tiny greasy spoon diner, picking away at the pancakes he had ordered, having no intentions of eating them.

Dean, who simply didn't understand pancakes, had ordered what the menu called a 'Monster Breakfast Burger'.

"Are you going to eat or just play with them?" John asked from behind his newspaper, eying his youngest son's plate.

"I'm not really hungry," Sam muttered and let a piece of pancake drop from his fork, taking a drink of his orange juice instead. Even though he was thirteen, John didn't like for him to order coffee when they were out at restaurants as though that would make him look like a bad parent.

The thirteen-year old had not told his brother and Dad what had happened that day when he accepted a ride from the man in the blue car. He knew what their reactions would be. He should have known better. Hadn't he spent the first twelve years of his life having the idea of 'stranger danger' drilled into his head? It was his fault. He had been stupid and had paid the price. He didn't have anyone to blame but himself.

So, no, when he started to hyperventilate at the thought of having to walk home alone, or when he woke up from terrifying nightmares where he relived what Randy did to him, or when he would break down in tears for no apparent reason, he kept silent and pretended everything was all right even when his father and brother knew it wasn't.

"Here's our food," Dean announced and rubbed his palms together in expectation.

John had asked for the usual breakfast fare: bacon, eggs, and toast; he was a man of simple tastes.

Dean's burger however, was far from simple. It was huge! A pretzel bun with the standard hamburger patty on the bottom, followed by bacon, Canadian bacon, a slice of ham, a fried egg, caramelized onions and cheddar cheese with a side of home fries.

"You are going to die of a heart attack before you're twenty," John told his eldest son.

"And I'm fine with that," Dean told him, "As long as I get to enjoy this glorious masterpiece."

Dean used the flat of his hand and pressed down on the top of the burger, to try and make it smaller so he could fit it into his mouth.

"Want some, Sammy?" he asked.

Sam shook his head.

The smell of onions was wafting towards him from the burger and he suddenly felt like he was going to throw up.

Pushing his unfinished plate away, Sam grabbed Dean's mug of coffee instead and gulped down the hot, bitter beverage.

"Gimme that!" Dean snatched back the mug of coffee and hailed a passing waitress, "Can I get a top up?"

"You all right, Sam?" John asked, "You're a little pale."

"I'm gonna use the restroom," Sam muttered evasively and slipped out of the booth.

 _W_

Locking himself in a stall in the men's room, Sam sat down on the toilet and pulled his legs up to his chest.

Calm down, damn it! He shouted at himself. You're being stupid!

He knew he was just imagining it but it seemed to him that the smell of onions had followed him into the restroom and was now mixed with the pungent aroma of garlic, almost as though Randy was breathing out his noxious fumes in the stall next to him.

Even though Sam knew he was being ridiculous, he leaned down and peered underneath the partition, just to make sure he was alone.

Once he'd gotten himself under control, Sam exited the stall, went to the sink and began washing his hands.

He jumped when the swinging door opened and bounced off the wall, a man stepping inside and making his way to the urinals. Sam relaxed; the man hadn't even given him a second glance.

Still, he dried his hands quickly and left the restroom all the same.

 _W_

"The waitress took your plate," Dean told his brother as Sam slid back into the booth, "I hope you don't mind. I told her you were finished."

"Whatever," Sam muttered and put his chin on his fist, peering out the window beside their booth.

"You want some of my burger?" Dean asked.

Sam wrinkled his nose and shook his head.

 _SPN_

John Winchester climbed into the driver's seat of his Chevy Impala, his eldest son beside him, his youngest in the back, and put the key in the ignition.

"Where are we going, Dad?" Dean asked, already fiddling with the radio.

"I don't know," John replied, "Maybe-"

He stopped mid-sentence as his mobile phone, a beat up Nokia, rang in his pocket.

Fishing the phone out, John glanced at the number on the screen. He didn't recognize it but answered anyway.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

"Is this… John Winchester?" a woman's timid voice spoke to him from the other end of the phone line.

"It is," John told her and turned the engine off.

"I was wondering," the woman paused, "Oh, this is going to sound awful but… I think I have a ghost in my house."

The hunter sat up straighter in his seat, his interest piqued.

"And what makes you think that?" he asked, motioning for Dean to grab a notepad and a pen from the glove compartment.

"The… the noises," the woman muttered, almost afraid to speak, "And the objects being thrown around."

"Are you experiencing any unexplained cold spots?" John asked.

"No… not those…" the woman hesitated, "but I have seen… something."

"Okay, well I can come and check it out," John told her, "Are you alone in the house?"

"It's me and my daughter here right now," the woman explained, "My husband is away but he should be back soon. He's a salesman so he travels a lot for work."

John nodded, "Where do you live?"

The woman told him. She was in a town only a few hours from their current location.

"One more question," John added, "How did you get this number?"

"Our local pastor gave us your number," the woman replied, "His name's Jim Murphy. Do you know him?"

"Yes, I do," John told her, "He's a good friend of mine."

"He is? Does he fight ghosts too?" the woman asked.

"Sometimes," John replied, "But mostly he just preaches these days."

"We'll be there in a few hours," the hunter told the distraught woman and ended the call.

"Looks like we have a case, boys."

 _SPN_

Sam dozed in the car as they drove. He was often plagued by insomnia, and when he gave in and took a sleep aid- something he bought on the sly so his father and brother wouldn't know- he ended up with horrible nightmares of Randy attacking him over and over again.

Dean chatted away about how excited he was for a routine Salt N' Burn, and how maybe they could visit Pastor Jim while they were there.

Sam would be happy to just toast the ghost and leave town. He had an irrational fear if they stayed in one place for too long, Randy would somehow find them and come after him.

"What do you think, Sammy?" Dean asked, "You haven't seen Jim since you were little. Do you even remember him?"

"I don't know," Sam muttered.

Since his brother wasn't being very conversational, Dean turned on the radio and blared the Rolling Stones' 'Gimme Shelter' into the car.

 _W_

"Sam, do you want us to drop you off at a motel or do you want to come with us?" John asked as they drove down the quiet streets of Blue Earth, Minnesota.

"I want to come with you," Sam replied immediately. He shuddered slightly at the thought of staying in a strange motel room all by himself.

"Where does this lady live?" Dean asked.

"Outside of town, she said," John replied.

Sam stared out the window as they drove through town, watching the cars and stores fly by them.

A flash of blue made the thirteen-year old's heart leap in his chest and bile rise in his throat. Was that? No, it couldn't be. Not here where Pastor Jim lived. There had to be hundreds, no, thousands of blue cars in the United States that looked like Randy's.

Still, Sam twisted in his seat to try and catch sight of the driver of the blue car as they came out of a Dunk'n Donuts shop.

"What're you looking at?" Dean asked.

"Nothing," Sam replied and turned back in his seat.

"You're a weirdo, you know that?" his brother commented.

Sam didn't reply.

They left town and passed a few old houses until John turned onto a long, gravel driveway and approached a large grey house with a wrap-around porch.

"She lives here? No wonder its haunted," Dean commented.

John pulled the Chevy up next to a white Taurus and cut the engine.

The house had a flourishing rose garden and a tree with a tire swing in the front yard. It was quiet and peaceful.

Before the hunters had even climbed out of the car, the front door opened and a middle-aged woman with light blonde hair had stepped out onto the porch. She was wearing red capris and a white and navy blue stripped t-shirt.

"Mr. Winchester?" she asked as John climbed the steps to the porch, his sons behind him.

"Yes," he replied and held out a hand.

"I'm Pauline," she said, "Thank you so much for coming."

"Don't thank me just yet," John told her, "Let's take care of the ghost first."

Pauline smiled tightly and nodded.

"Are these your sons?" she asked, peering behind John.

"Yes, this is Dean and Sam," he introduced the boys.

"I have a daughter about your age, Sam," Pauline told him, "She's home today if you want to meet her."

Sam shrugged.

"C'mon Sammy," Dean muttered, then, louder, "We'd love to."

Pauline moved out of the way so the Winchesters could enter the house. It was very fancy and expensively decorated with rugs and hardwood floors and floral wallpaper.

"How long have you lived here?" John asked as the woman led them through the house.

"We've only just moved in," Pauline replied, "This was actually my husband's family home when he was growing up. His parents left it to him in their will. He couldn't bear to part with it so he moved us here about two months ago from in town."

"Did your mother or father-in-law ever say anything about unusual activity in the house?" John asked.

Pauline had led them to the kitchen; a room gleaming with granite countertops and state-of-the art appliances. A girl of about twelve was sitting at the island in the middle of the room, doing homework.

"Jane," Pauline spoke, "This is Mr. Winchester. He's going to make the ghost go away. And these are his sons, Sam and Dean."

The girl, who had the same blonde hair as her mother, but had glasses, smiled.

"Hi," she greeted.

"Has your daughter seen the ghost or experienced anything strange?" John asked.

Pauline nodded, "Yes, she has. She's terrified to sleep alone. She'll climb into bed with me and my husband when he's home."

"What have you seen, honey?" John asked, smiling at the child.

The girl, however, clammed up and didn't speak.

"Why don't you show Sam your room, Jane?" Pauline asked.

The girl nodded and slipped down from the stool she was sitting on and approached Sam.

"C'mon," she said, "It's really neat."

Sam didn't really want to leave his brother and father but he followed the girl anyway.

 _SPN_

"I'm sorry about that," Pauline apologized, "Jane gets shy around strangers."

"That's all right," John replied.

"Can I get you anything to drink?" Pauline asked, "Lemonade, iced tea?"

Dean opened his mouth to reply but John told the woman they were fine.

"I want to know what kinds of activity you've been experiencing," John pressed, "You said on the phone you would hear noises and objects moved. Can you tell me about that?"

Pauline pressed her lips together but nodded.

"It happens in the middle of the night," she began, "The first time it happened, it scared me half to death, I thought it was Jane."

"What was it?" Dean encouraged.

"Crying," Pauline replied, "A child's crying. I ran to Jane's room but she was fine. But the crying didn't stop. It… it was so heartbreaking. It kept moving and I couldn't find where it was coming from and then it just stopped."

"Does this happen every night?" John asked.

Pauline thought, "No, I don't think it does. It will happen for a few nights and then it will stop and start up again."

"Can you think of any particular reason it stops and starts again?"

Again, the woman had to think.

"It always happens when my husband is home."

"What about the objects moving? What's moving and does that only happen when your husband is home?"

"I don't really know what moves," the woman admitted, looking chagrinned, "I mean, it sounds like something heavy is being dragged down the hallway but nothing ever moves when we wake up in the morning. Everything is always where we left it the night before."

"And this also happens only when your husband is home?" Dean asked.

Pauline nodded.

"Would you mind if we talked to him to?" John asked, "Is there a number where we could reach him?"

Pauline shook her head, "He called me just after I phoned you. He'll be home very soon. Why don't you wait a while and then you'll be able to talk to him in person?"

 _SPN_

Jane's room was definitely a girl's room. Everything was pink. There were porcelain dolls and stuffed animals everywhere. Sam leaned against the doorframe as Jane showed him some of her prized possessions.

"You're bored," Jane told him, lowering the stuffed purple unicorn she was waving in front of his face, "I can tell."

"No, I-" Sam began, but then Jane smiled and tossed the toy carelessly onto the floor.

"I know something really cool we can look at," she took his hand, "But you can't tell my Mom and Dad. They don't know I know."

Jane led Sam down the hallway and opened a door that had been closed.

"We have to be careful," Jane didn't turn on any lights and it was kind of difficult to see anything with the thick, velvet curtains covering the windows.

The twelve-year old seemed to know exactly where she was going and led Sam to the closet before sliding the door open. She dropped to her knees and motioned for Sam to do the same.

For a moment, Sam wondered if Jane had found her parent's 'toys' but then the girl brushed the shoes that lined the bottom of the closet away and used her nails to pry up a loose floorboard. Wedged in the space was a small box. Jane pulled the box out and sat back.

"What's in there?" Sam asked, feeling slightly uneasy.

"My Dad's collection," Jane told him, with a smile.

"Why does he hide it?" Sam wondered what exactly was inside the box for Jane's dad to hide it so well.

"Look," Jane eased open the rusty box and showed him the handful of trinkets inside.

There was a yellow button, a Boy Scout pin, a twine bracelet, a piece of quartz rock, and a pocketknife.

"Oh my God," Sam whispered, his throat tightening.

"Cool huh?" Jane asked, "I don't know why my Dad keeps this stuff hidden. It's junk, really."

Sam reached out, his hand trembling, and picked up the pocketknife.

"That's the newest thing he's found," Jane told him.

Slowly, telling himself it couldn't be his; Sam turned the knife over and nearly dropped it in shock. There, written in his own hand in permanent marker, were the initials _S.W._

The sound of a car door slamming shut startled Sam and he nearly dropped the knife a second time.

"Dad's home!" Jane cried and shoved the box of souvenirs at Sam, "Hide those!"

She turned and ran out of the room, leaving Sam fumbling with the box in his hands. Laying it on the floor of the closet, Sam shoved his knife into his pocket, his heart pounding in his chest.

He wanted his brother and father. He didn't want to go downstairs and see Randy hugging and kissing his wife and daughter.

"Sam! Come downstairs!" John's loud voice boomed up at his youngest son and the thirteen-year old staggered from the bedroom on legs that felt like boiled noodles.

Slowly, holding onto the railing for support, Sam descended the staircase. He slid his hand into the pocket with his knife, gripping it tightly.

"Randy, dear, donuts for lunch?" Pauline's voice floated towards Sam from the kitchen.

"I thought we could celebrate," Randy's voice answered, sending Sam's heart thudding painfully against his chest and sweat beading on his brow, "If we can finally get rid of the ghost than what wrong with a treat?"

"Sam, you coming?" Dean's voice called and his brother peered out the kitchen doorway.

"Hey, are you okay?" the seventeen-year old stepped forward and met his brother at the bottom of the stairs.

Sam, afraid he would vomit if he opened his mouth, nodded. Dean put an arm across his shoulders and guided him into the kitchen and there he was. Wearing a white golf shirt and green khaki shorts, glasses perched on the end of his nose, was Randy.

"And this is Sam," John introduced the two.

Sam stared at Randy, shaking but Dean didn't seem to notice. He was focused on the box of donuts sitting on the island.

The man stared back at the boy and there was no look of recognition in his gaze.

"Nice to meet you, Sam," Randy said and reached out a hand towards the thirteen-year old.

Something snapped in Sam and he drew his pocketknife out, slashing at the man with the blade, an animalistic cry of fear and anger ripping from his throat, tears welling up in his eyes.

"Holy hell!" Dean shouted and grabbed Sam as he lunged at Randy, slicing his open palm with the knife.

Randy shouted in pain and grabbed his hand, his wife and daughter screaming in shock and fear.

Dean wrapped his arms around Sam and picked him up, still struggling and began carrying him bodily from the kitchen and down the hallway. Sam barely knew what was happening; all he cared about was getting that man away from him, of never letting that man touch him again.

John followed his sons, shouting apologies at the frightened family.

Dean walked right outside onto the porch with his sibling, still crying and thrashing while their Dad paused only long enough to tell Randy he was very sorry for Sam's actions, that he normally would never act like that.

"Get off my property!" Randy shouted, "Or I'll call the police!"

John didn't have to be asked twice. He climbed into to driver's side of the Impala while Dean shoved Sam into the backseat before clambering in after him.

Dean grabbed the pocketknife from Sam and shoved it in his own pocket. The thirteen-year old was just crying now, tears and snot running down his face. He grabbed his brother's leather jacket and buried his face against Dean's chest.

"What the hell was that, Sam?!" John snapped as he reversed down the driveway and onto the main road that led into town.

But Sam couldn't answer. He sobbed inconsolably. He just wanted Dean's comfort.

The seventeen-year old put his arms around his brother, absolutely dumbfounded as to why his brother would suddenly lash out like that.

John drove until they reached Pastor Jim's church and pulled up to the front door of the rectory. Getting out of the Chevy, the hunter pounded his fist against the door before his sons had even exited the car themselves.

Sam refused to walk so Dean had to carry him, not that it was an issue, his younger brother being so small for his age, but it worried him at the sudden, inexplicable change in his sibling.

"John," Jim Murphy opened the door, "I didn't expect to- Oh my God is Sam all right?"

"He's not hurt," Dean offered, "But something's definitely not right."

"Come in," the pastor moved out of the way and the hunters entered the small rectory.

"Did you meet Pauline?" Jim asked as he led them into the tiny kitchen and put the kettle on the stove, "I told her to call you."

"We did," John replied. He sat down at the table beside his friend. Dean tried to pry Sam off but the younger boy clung on like a limpet so Dean gave up and sat down.

"We just came from there," John continued.

"What do you think? Do you think it's a ghost?" Jim asked.

"We didn't even get a chance to do and EMF reading," John told him, "Sam freaked out before we could."

"It was really weird," Dean added, "As soon as he saw Randy he freaked out and attacked him."

Jim, who was taking mugs down from the cupboard, turned around, "Randy was there?"

"He'd just arrived home," John told him, "Why?"

"I don't like the man," Jim told him, "Don't trust him. Never have. Ever since… the incident."

"What incident?" Dean asked.

"Does everyone like hot chocolate?" the pastor asked and John nodded.

"Years ago now, when I was new here," Jim began, taking down a tin of cocoa and began scooping it into the mugs, "I met Randy and his family. He seemed like a nice, normal teenager. Maybe a bit shy, but nothing struck me as particularly odd about him.

I met another family, a young couple with a little boy, of about four or five. The child had mental challenges and was unable to speak. They were neighours of Randy's family. That little boy loved Randy, followed him everywhere and Randy allowed it. He was kind to the boy, would invite him into the house, would play on the tire swing with him, would buy him candy or ice cream if they were in town. Everyone acted like Randy was the boy's older brother they were that close. It really was sweet to see."

Jim smiled sadly.

"This went on for about a year, or so I was told, and then, one day, the little boy just vanished. No one knew where he was. Some people thought he'd wandered off and gotten lost, others thought he'd been kidnapped. The whole town searched for him but no sign of the boy was found."

"What's this got to do with Randy?" John asked, accepting a mug of hot chocolate from Jim.

"Well, Randy, to me at least, didn't seem as upset about the boy's disappearance as he should have been," the pastor explained, "I mean, he just acted as though it wasn't a big deal and went on with his life. Not the kind of attitude you'd expect from someone who'd just lost a friend."

"Were there any suspects?" John asked.

"The police interviewed Randy but it was just routine," Jim told them, "No one really believed that the shy, kind teenage boy could have done anything wrong and within a few months the case went cold. The young family moved from town and then Randy accepted a job as a travelling salesman and was hardly ever home. He married a girl from here, a classmate, I guess, and they had a child. They lived in town for a few years and then his parents passed away within weeks of each other and he inherited their house."

"And that's when the ghost started causing trouble," Dean added.

"But that doesn't explain why you attacked that man," John spoke directly to his youngest son.

Sam, calmer now, had listened to Jim's story silently, sipping steadily from his mug of hot chocolate, had an uneasy feeling he knew exactly what had happened to the little neighbour and whose ghost was now haunting Jane's house.

"Sam," John said, "What the hell were you thinking?"

The thirteen-year old couldn't look his father in the eye. Instead, he focused on the bubbles floating on top of his cocoa.

"I found my pocketknife," he muttered.

"What, the one you lost weeks ago?" Dean asked and Sam nodded.

Dean pulled the knife from his pocket and turned it over, showing the initials _S.W._ scrawled on the handle in permanent marker.

"You told me you dropped it on the way to school," Dean said, "Made me walk with you and try and find it."

Sam bowed his head.

"I didn't lose it like that."

"Sam," John said again, "What happened? Tell us."

Sam sucked in a shaky breath. His heart was starting to beat faster again at the thought of telling his family the truth.

"I lost the knife in his car," he mumbled.

"What? Randy's car? You've only just met him. What are you talking about, Sammy?" Dean asked but Sam was shaking his head.

"Son," John reached across the table and put a large, calloused hand on his youngest son's arm, "Tell us what happened. Please."

Tears welled up in Sam's eyes and he felt like he was going to puke again. But he swallowed. The look on his father's face was disarming. He wanted to believe his father and brother wouldn't be mad at him for what he was about to reveal.

"I'm sorry," Sam whimpered, "I'm sorry I didn't listen to you. It was raining and I was cold. He said he'd take me to the motel. I didn't want to go with him but he seemed so nice."

"Oh Sammy," Dean murmured.

"I thought it'd be okay because the motel wasn't far," Sam continued, forcing the words out, "But he didn't take me to the motel. He said he had a shortcut and I… and I… believed him…"

He wiped a sleeve across his eyes and laid his head against his brother's chest as he spoke again.

"I didn't realize what was happening at first but I tried to fight. I lost my knife and he… and he…" Sam broke down, unable to finish.

"Sammy," Dean murmured, "Hey, it's okay, it's okay."

"He… he hurt me," Sam whispered, barely audible, "I tried to stop it but… but I couldn't."

Dean squeezed his brother comfortingly, "What did he do, Sammy?"

The thirteen-year old closed his eyes, feeling the cocoa he had just drank fighting to climb up his throat. Taking a deep breath, he told his father and brother exactly what had happened to him in Randy's car.

"Why didn't you tell us?" John asked, angry.

"You always told me to stay away from strangers," Sam answered, "I knew you'd be mad."

"Sammy," Dean said, his voice thick, "We're not mad. Not at you at least. You're just a kid."

Sam, shaking curled tighter against his brother's chest. Having to tell his family the truth he'd been hiding had left him both physically and emotionally drained.

"How did you get your knife back, Sam?" Jim asked. His face was pale and drawn, shocked by what the thirteen-year old had just confessed.

"Jane showed me her Dad's collection," Sam told them, "He kept some stuff hidden in a box at the bottom of the closet. My knife was in there."

Jim Murphy stood suddenly and left the room.

John squeezed his son's arm comfortingly. He was seething with anger. How could anyone hurt a child the way Randy had harmed his son? He was going to make the son of a bitch pay if it was the last thing he did.

The pastor returned with an old Polaroid photograph. He laid it on the table in front of Sam. It showed a small child, a boy of about four or five, wearing yellow overalls and a stripped shirt and bare feet. The boy was standing in front of a tree with a tire swing attached to one of its branches.

"This is the last photo of Archie before he disappeared," Jim explained.

Sam's eyes widened as he took in the photo.

"There was a yellow button with my knife," he told them, "That must be from the overalls."

"Do you think Archie's alive?" Dean asked.

Jim shook his head, "No, I don't think so, Dean. Remember the ghost?"

"Oh, yeah," the seventeen-year old muttered, disappointed.

"There was other stuff in the box too," Sam added with a shudder, wondering just how many boys just like him Randy had raped.

"We need to stop this before anyone else gets hurt," John announced, "Jim, I know you're a pastor, but we need your help."

"I don't condone violence," Jim agreed, "But Randy must be stopped. I'll help you in any way I can."

John nodded, "Thank you. I just need you to get Pauline and Jane out of the house for the night."

"Tonight?" Jim asked.

"Yes," the hunter replied, "We can't take a chance that this monster will skip town."

"I'm sure I can convince the women to leave the house," Jim told them.

 _W_

The Winchesters spent the hours until nightfall in the rectory with Pastor Jim. Sam and Dean took over the couch in the living room and watched mindless TV while John sat at the kitchen table with a mug of something a little stronger than cocoa in front of him, writing in his journal.

At noon hour Jim brought the boys bologna sandwiches and Coca-Colas, at dinner, he made chili. The Winchesters didn't talk about what was to happen once they arrived at Randy's house. Dean trusted that his father would have a plan.

As night drew closer, Dean took his brother upstairs and into one of the pastor's guest bedrooms. Sam was both physically and emotionally exhausted from the day and gratefully curled beneath the quilt spread out on the bed. Dean peered down at his sibling, Sam's features especially childlike in slumber, before gently tucking the blanket tightly around him.

"Don't worry, Sammy," Dean whispered, "When you wake up this will all be nothing but a bad dream."

 **Author's Note:**

 **My friend, mandancie, requested I work on this story for her birthday so here I am! Happy Birthday, mandancie!**

 **Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favourited, or followed this story. I appreciate all the support you give!**

 **Please leave a review only if you enjoyed this chapter.**


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